


In Morning Fog

by nugget_basket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Ghost Cas, M/M, dean is old
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-15 14:49:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nugget_basket/pseuds/nugget_basket
Summary: Dean is living out his middle age in a quiet, out of the way neighbourhood, in relative isolation. There, he finds a man who seems to be both lost and confused, wandering about. Dean takes pity on him and takes him in, and that would be the end of that, except there's rather an odd reason for the blue eyed stranger's amnesia.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It has been very long since I posted or wrote fanfiction due to several dramatic changes in my life. However, I was looking through my old documents and found this unfinished fic, which I liked the sound of. I shall now attempt to finish it as I'm on holiday from uni and should have some time. To anyone who's reading this: Thank you for giving it a chance :)

Dean first sees him as a distant line through his window over steaming black coffee. The man with the wiry raven hair and the worn, tan trenchcoat. Both the man and the trenchcoat look like they’ve seen better years, Dean thinks – a passing thought that doesn’t quite root in his mind, like the morning fog seeping into the sunrise smoothened landscape a little way down the path leading into the woods. It’s a small, quiet neighbourhood, where Dean’s little two storey affair sits, his beloved Impala parked in the dirt drive.

The unknown man’s creased, weathered visage remains stony, gaze locked on seemingly nothing in particular. Dean passes him on his way in to work, work being an even more out of the way garage where he works for his late father’s oldest friend, Bobby. Dean’s mind stays transfixed on blue eyes that reflected the cloud streaked skies, slowly lightening over the stranger’s bedhead.

He sees him yet again on his evening jog, standing there, staring deep into the recesses of the pine woods, a single muddied path, just wide enough for two people to walk side by side, winding into the comforting green tinted light that filters through the thick dresses of the evergreens. Shadows, dulled in the fading light, make the wearily slouched man look smaller in the grandeur of the forest background, and Dean feels a sudden, stabbing pity echo in his gut.

For a startling moment of sheer clarity, he sees his own defeated loneliness mirrored in this man. In the ever-so-slight hunch of his back his eyes traced instead his own withering spine, and in the darkened hue of the stranger’s eyes, his own pain.

Dean Winchester senses a like soul in this man, and his guard, usually so high on alert - a habit engrained in a military childhood by a man who saw nothing but evil in the world where he raised his sons – lowers just enough for his feet to gravitate towards the rapidly elongating silhouette attached to a pair of scuffed dress shoes.

“Hello?” Dean’s gruff voice gives away his obvious uncertainty, and the man looks up, blue eyes darting to Dean’s own, almost childlike in their evident surprise.

“Hello.” If Dean’s voice is a honeyed baritone, this man’s voice is a roughened bass. Dean wonders if he smokes, but one look at muted pink lips scraps that idea.

“Are you okay? I mean, I saw you this morning, and I was wondering if you were out here alone, and well you didn’t seem too good and I thought maybe…” Dean’s voice trails off, and the sudden thought that he might be being a bother, or worse, that this man could be a rapist, or a pedophile, or a mugger entered his mind like a bullet – unwelcome and jarring.

“Oh.” His voice, quiet and hesitant, charmingly so, clears this possibility from Dean’s head. There is no way, Dean theorizes, that such a soft-spoken, clearly confused guy could be anything so awful. He can just sort of feel that the blue eyed man standing opposite him is no threat.

“You see,” the stranger begins, “I – I think I’ve lost my way…but I can’t really remember where I was going either.”

Dean gapes at him for a moment. “Uh, well why don’t we start with your name?”

With a rather abashed look, the stranger shrugs. “I don’t really remember.”

Dean wonders if perhaps this dude had hit his head somewhere. The only thing Dean knows of amnesia was what he got from that one episode of Dr. Sexy where one of the patients had come in with amnesia, and they couldn’t place him. A real John Doe as it were. He scratches his head, and glances once more at the earnest blue eyes that maintain a near-constant eye contact with his, sending a strange sort of warmth to the back of his neck.

“Well, look, why don’t you come on inside. You look cold, and I can get you some java and maybe a donut. You can stay here for the night, and I’ll drive you to the local police station tomorrow – how’s that sound?”

He nods, a disarmingly trusting look in his eyes, and Dean returns the gesture, throwing an arm in the general direction of his house. In tandem, they step toward the little building, the calls of the loons bidding them farewell.

 

~

 

Dean lies in bed, awake, listening to the sounds of the house and the surrounding woods. Sleep comes easily to him most of the time, and as his 45th birthday draws near, Dean suspects sleep will become one of his greatest friends. Bobby has become even gruffer in his 70s, and lately his “idjit”s have been accompanied by hacking coughs. Dean knows all too well, the concept of mortality, but does not fear it. But then, Dean doesn’t fear much anymore.

Life here is comfortable. It’s quiet, and gentle, and soothing. It doesn’t force you into a spate of productivity in the pursuit of some greater goal. It sits beside you, and Dean goes through life in peaceful contemplation. Long gone are his days of chasing tail, drinking till he can’t get off his barstool without stumbling. Alcohol has dissipated from his life, along with all the things that defined Dean Winchester a mere decade before.

In his middle age, he has mellowed profoundly, seeking comfort in the soft embrace of his duvet and in the bird calls outside the misted glass of his window rather than in the bosoms of beautiful women or the cold steel of his whiskey flask.

He wonders how the amnesiac is doing, curled up in the guest room down the hall. Without really thinking about it, he gets up, feet hitting the cool floors, and pads to the other room. Gently turning the doorknob and popping his head in, he notices the bed is slightly rumpled, but empty. Panic grips his heart in snaking, icy tendrils. What was he thinking? How could he let an absolute stranger sleep in his house? What if he took something valuable? Dean considers getting out his father’s Colt from the study safe when a voice rumbles behind him.

“Dean?”

Heart palpitating wildly, Dean starts, managing to smack his head against the door frame. “Jesus, dude!” He recovers quickly, and rubs at the newly formed lump on the side of his forehead. “Dammit, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Forgive me Dean, I did not mean to do so.” Blue eyes shine with quiet laughter in the waning moonlight.

“A-are you laughing at me?” Dean is more amazed than offended, managing to break out a wide grin at the stranger’s apparent, contained mirth.

“I’m sorry, Dean, it was just that that reaction was rather – well, unexpected.” He chuckles, a pleasant sound in the darkened halls.

“In return, you can help me put some ice on this fucker.” Dean claps him on the back and the two head to the kitchen, where Dean pulls out a clean rag, and tosses some ice in it before folding it up and pressing it to his head gingerly.

“Are you alright?” Concern draws black eyebrows together, creating the appearance of a child pouting in great concentration, and Dean smiles despite himself.

“I’m fine, don’t worry.”

Regardless, the other man reaches out and gently keeps the ice pack pressed against the soreness on Dean’s head, cold fingers smoothing hair away from the spot.

“Th-thanks.” Dean clears his throat and looks up into the smoky blue of focused eyes. “You couldn’t sleep.”

The stranger pauses. “…No, I could not. But that isn’t very surprising, considering.”

Dean figures he means the whole amnesia thing. “Has anyone ever told you you look like an angel?” He blurts out, without meaning to.

Those blue eyes widen slightly, then a slight smile plays on pastel lips. “No, but then I probably would not remember if anyone had.”

“Well, you do.” Dean insists. “You know, everyone always thinks that angels are like, these fluffy little flying babies or whatever, but they’re warriors. They fought demons, and had Michael, the archangel, he had a huge flaming sword. Angels were just _badasses_.”

“Well, thank you Dean.”

“Hey, if you can’t remember your name, why don’t we give you one for now, at least up until you remember your own?”

The man considers it for a moment, then nods. “That would be acceptable. What did you have in mind?”

Dean hesitates. “When I was a kid, my mom used to tuck me in every night – and she’d always tell me, Dean, you have angels watching over you. She used to tell me about all the angels, and my favourite was the Angel of Thursday, Castiel. Even though I was born on a Wednesday. He was my mom’s favourite Angel too, so you know, I’ve always liked the name. What do you think?”

“I like it.” The man – no – _Castiel_ says gravely, as if accepting a great honour.

Dean nods. “It’s settled then.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, a Saturday, thankfully, finds Dean snoring while gracelessly sprawled on his living room couch. He rises to consciousness like a diver would rise slowly, seamlessly to the surface of the water. Eyes flickering open, he spies an unruly mop of dark hair bobbing in his peripherals.

“Cas?” The new name sounds strangely natural leaving his mouth, hanging in the air for a brief second before Castiel clears his throat.

“Hello, Dean.” He smiles gently. “How is your head?”

Dean is abruptly reminded of last night’s events, and chuckles, somewhat embarrassed. “Well, doesn’t hurt anymore. You still don’t remember anything?”

Castiel frowns at this. “About that…Dean we need to talk.”

“Why, are you gonna break up with me?” Dean jokes, trying to dissipate the anxiety that lines Castiel’s pale face. He succeeds in a way, as the anxiety is replaced with befuddlement.

“We were…never…” Castiel tilts his head, in a disarmingly adorable way. Dean thinks for a moment that he looks like a little bird, and shakes his head in amusement.

“I’m joking dude. What did you wanna talk about?”

“Dean, I think I might be dead.” Castiel says, perfectly serious.

Dean raises an eyebrow in response, waiting for some kind of follow up, but Castiel remains silent, eyes trained on his own.

“What do you mean, dead?” Dean half chuckles, shaking his head. “Listen, don’t worry, we’ll head down to the police office today, and we’ll see if there any missing persons reports, find your next-of-kin…”

“No, Dean.” Castiel squeezes Dean’s bicep in an attempt to bring him back to the topic. “I think I’m _dead_ , and I think you’re the only one who can see me. It makes sense, now that I have considered all the options.”

“Dead, like… _dead_ dead?”

He cocks his head in slight amusement at Dean’s gaping mouth. “Yes Dean. Dead dead.”

“How is that possible? This isn’t a TV show, Cas, I think you just hit your head really hard, you might even need medical attention.”

Castiel sighs, deeply, as if Dean is the illogical one. “Dean…”

“Cas, there’s no way you can be dead!” He presses a flat palm into Castiel’s right arm. “See? You’re as real as I am.”

“I don’t think death operates exactly the way you think it does Dean. I don’t know why you can see me, and touch me, and other people can’t. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I passed quite a few people, and you were the _only one_ who could see me, Dean.”

“I don’t believe this. There has to be a logical explanation.”

Castiel brushes freezing fingers against Dean’s stubbled cheek. “I’m afraid this _is_ the logical explanation Dean.” Had he always been that cold?

“Even if this is true,” Dean continues, “what’s keeping you here then? Why aren’t you, I dunno, flyin’ off with angel wings or something? Why are you still here?”

Castiel’s expression changes, shadows diffusing into the bags under his eyes and the creases at the corners of his mouth.  “Now, that, I do not know.”

He rubs the sides of his head, calloused fingers raking through lightly greying hair. “I just can’t really get my head around this.”

Castiel takes Dean’s hand in his, and leads him to the well-lit kitchen. Natural light floats in, casting shadows on the floor. Dean gets a sudden flashback of holding his mother’s hand on a day like this, as she guides his toddler self across sun-baked tiles. The sound of Castiel lighting the stove startles out of the memory, and cold skin leaves his own.

“Look.” Castiel doesn’t seem impatient or frustrated, but rather just calm, like the surface of a lake. Dean watches as the other man, with no qualms whatsoever, thrusts his fingers right into the flames rising merrily on the stovetop.

“Cas-“ Dean’s heart stops, but Castiel only lifts completely unharmed, pale digits to Dean’s eyes.

“You see?”

“You have gotta be fucking kidding me.” Dean gapes, grasping for Castiel’s hand. It didn’t even feel warm to the touch, despite having been in the flames for a good 3 seconds.

“I’m afraid I’m not, Dean.” And Castiel chuckles.

~

Dean takes Castiel down to the garage in his Impala as some kind of a test – to prove to Castiel, or perhaps more to himself, that these thoughts were groundless.

“Hey Bobby.” Dean stalks into Singer Auto Salvage Yard, surety in his usual bowlegged stride, waiting for the old man to gruffly acknowledge Castiel’s presence. Bobby does no such thing, gaze landing on Dean himself for only an instant before turning back to Adam’s figure, stooped over the bonnet of a scratched up Honda Civic.

“Hey Dean.” Adam calls, stretching and yawning.

“You look like shit Adam.” Dean grins. “Rough night?”

Adam winks. “You know it. Garth wanted to have a drink, since Bess is out of town. Next thing you know he starts pulling out his puppet and – “

“Save it kid, I’ve seen that damn puppet in action too many times already.”

“I told you Dean.” Castiel sounds wistful almost, and Dean has no choice but accept the truth of it. Adam at least, would never ignore anyone who came into the garage, and Dean remembers the cadaver like quality of Castiel’s skin, the slight grey tinge to his lips, and Dean simply accepts the unbelievable. He wonders if this too, is due to his middle age.

“Bobby, I wanted to ask if I could get the next week off?” Dean says, surprising even himself. He’d never once taken a day off from the scrapyard. This grabs even Bobby’s attention, and he nods in approval. “Take all the time you need, son. Adam and Garth can pick up the slack.”

“Sure can.” Adam agrees, turning back to the car.

“Well, I’ll see you both soon then.” Dean throws a careless wave as he turns, and rubbing at his eyes, trudges back to his car.

“Hello again, baby.” He croons softly to the sleek machine, giving it a gentle pat before getting in. Castiel watches warily, as he slides into the passenger seat.

“Dean, I-“

“Don’t worry Cas, we’ll find out what happened to you. Maybe you can’t rest because something’s holding you here.” Dean points out, as he starts up the engine. “Once we find out what it is, and do something about it…”

Castiel nods, and they drive back to Dean’s house, both lost and drowning in incredible thoughts.

 

~

“There really isn’t anything you remember?” Dean leans back in his chair, pausing to chew thoughtfully on his toast. Castiel sits stiffly across him, pale fingers tracing the chequered pattern of the tablecloth. Dean is pretty proud of his kitchen – he had modelled it after the remnants of his memory of the home he had spent his childhood in. Even at that age, he had spent most of his time in the kitchen with his mother. She would putter about, golden hair floating about her head, her kind eyes crinkled in a smile. Dean puts those thoughts out of his head. At his age, nostalgia seems to be an awkward phase.

“I wouldn’t say there is nothing I remember. If I concentrate, I can sometimes remember certain sounds and smells. I just have yet to…identify them.” Castiel speaks in slow, measured syllables, Dean notices. The deliberate manner of his speech is calming. Despite the absurdity of the situation, it grounds him. Some miserable part of him questions his sanity, but Dean decides even if he has completely lost it, it doesn’t really matter that much.

“Well,” Dean says, though uncertain, “the only thing we could do is just show you things, take you places, until maybe you pick up on something and remember. Besides, if you ended up coming here when you died, that must mean you’re tied to the place or something right?”

“Perhaps.” Castiel sighs, and then smiles crookedly at Dean. “I don’t even know how I died.”

Dean feels a sudden rush of warmth and he automatically reaches out to pat Castiel’s hand. “We’ll find out.”

Castiel furrows his eyebrows for a moment, and then flips his palm over, threading his fingers through Dean’s. “This feels so familiar. It is strange, that I am dead, and yet I feel your warmth so acutely, Dean. When I met you that day, everything else had looked cloudy, but when I looked at you, it was as if the skies had parted.”

It was then that Dean considered that if he had ever known Castiel when the man was alive, he would have been the weirdest motherfucker on his contact list. An unmistakable warmth crept up his throat, and he coughed, looking away, at anything but those crystalline eyes, thinking about anything but how he felt like he was drifting.

The default ringtone blasting from Dean’s cellphone breaks them out of their shared reverie, and he breaks their handhold to grab it off the table.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice filters through terrible speakers, and Dean snaps back to reality. He gets up from the table, and moves to the window.

“Hey Sammy, how’s it going?” The fog had cleared the day before but the clouds have claimed the skies for their own, the sun barely visible. Dean watches some kid ride his bicycle down the street, red cap vanishing from sight as he coasts down the dirt road leading into the woods.

“I just wanted to check if you’ve asked Bobby if he’s fine with you taking leave off work next month. The kids are pretty excited about coming down so I’ve been wanting to finalise the plans and that way Sarah will get off my back and – Dean? Are you there?”

“Uh, yeah, sorry Sammy, you’re coming to mine next month?” Dean racks his brain for some semblance of understanding. He didn’t remember anything about a visit, nor did he really recall Sam having called him in the past two weeks.

“Did you forget, you jerk? We talked about it just last week! You must be getting old.” Sam teases.

“Shut up bitch, I’ve had a lot going on.” Dean gripes. He lowers his voice and asks, “Listen, Sammy. Do you believe in ghosts? Things like that?”

There is a pause before Sam answers. “Um…I don’t really know Dean. Why do you ask?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Probably,” his brother reasons, “but you can tell me anyway.”

“I think I met a dead guy. But he doesn’t remember who he was or how he dies. Only knows that he’s dead.” Dean says it all in a rush lest he chicken out and waffle his way out of the discussion.

“Dean.” Sam starts. “Have you had your check up recently? I know you hate doctors, but you know you have to keep an eye on these things, what with Dad and all...”

“Sammy, you know I’ve gotten tested. That isn’t it. I’m not fucking crazy, I don’t hear shit and I swear it’s not me gone whacky. Just…just forget it okay?”

Sam exhales sharply, but continues. “I dunno, Dean, maybe you should check the obituaries or something. And if it was true… _if_ …then technically for most amnesiacs, their memories tend to come back over some time a little at a time. But for some, they never do.”

“Thanks Sam. And I’m sorry, if I sound insane.”

“Just take care of yourself Dean. You’ve been through a lot.”

With that, Sam sighs and they say their goodbyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think that this will be a very long fic and it should be finished in a couple more chapters.
> 
> Again, if you are reading, thank you.

At noon, Dean leaves Castiel at home to drive to one of his favourite diners to purchase two cheeseburgers and an entire apple pie. He knows that if he was dead, he would likely miss the ability to stuff food into his mouth at inhuman speeds more than anything else. And, so, he sits Castiel down at the table and pushes the carton containing the burger and half a pie towards the other man. Dean then settles down at his own seat and sets about demolishing his portion of the food.

Castiel pokes at the burger tentatively. “I do not want to think about the amount of grease that has gone into making that.”

“What?” Dean grumbles around his full mouth. “You remember how cheeseburgers are made but not even your own name?”

Castiel fixes him with an adorably annoyed gaze. “That is not how amnesia works, Dean.”

“Sure thing, Cas.” Dean chuckles fondly, watching him bring the burger to his mouth and take a careful bite. His eyelids fly up and blue eyes flick to Dean’s in surprise.

Castiel swallows before he says, “That was very good. I was not expecting that.”

Dean basks in the fresh wave of affection that washes over him. He leans forward and brushes a crumb off Castiel’s chin. The dark-haired man closes his eyes at the touch and Dean finds his hand unfurling to gently cup Castiel’s cheek, fingers rasping against the eternal stubble that covered the soft, pale skin.

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice does not quaver the way Dean’s does as he mumbles something about the particle of food that he had spied and hastens to change the topic.

“I think I managed to get some newspapers from the past few months, so maybe we could go through those later. You might recognise a name, or something – it’s worth a shot.”

“If you think it would be worthwhile, then I would be willing Dean.” Castiel toys with the tablecloth, a habit that seemed so out of place, Dean was close to commenting on it when the other man blurted, “there is something about this tablecloth that I like.”

“Um.” Dean starts, bewildered, “thanks?”

“No, I mean,” Castiel seems to consider his next words carefully. “It’s almost…familiar. Comforting, almost.”

“It’s a pretty common pattern, Cas. Maybe you had something like it.”

Castiel shakes his head vehemently, chewing on his lip like a stubborn toddler. “This does not seem like something I would purchase. Somehow, it reminds me of a lot of things.” His gaze darts to the pie sitting before him. “Is this apple pie?”

Dean nods.

“Yes, it smells just like it. Homemade apple pie, hints of cinnamon. Sunday mornings.” Those beautiful blue eyes melt with sheer longing, and Dean’s gaze is fixed upon Castiel’s gently wrinkled forehead and the sloping planes of his jaw. It takes all of his strength not to shove his chair away from the table and fold his arms around Castiel. The idea petrifies Dean, but he keeps his face level.

“Do you remember anything else?”

“I can’t say I do, Dean.” Castiel’s eyes turn stony, and he runs a hand through his perennially untidy head. “I remember the smell of apple pie baking in the oven, with startling clarity. However, all else seems to escape me.”

“It’s something, and that’s a start.” Dean takes Cas’ hand in his, squeezes in reassurance - Castiel smiles at him so warmly, his chest aches.

Later that night, Dean lies awake, wondering why the hell the way Cas fit against his palm felt so right.

~

It is on Dean’s eleven birthday when he begins to watch his father’s mind disintegrate.

The fear he spies in John’s eyes is so real, so clear, that Dean ignores the stink of cheap whiskey rolling off his breath in toxic fumes. All he can do is try not to inhale as his father clutches the boy to him, eyes seeking out his son’s. John explains that they need to go, _now_ , at this very moment there are monsters everywhere – they killed his mother, they, they, they and Dean starts to spiral into the mania with his father.

Dean feels his chest expand and stiffen. He knows at this moment he has surpassed the childhood that he promises to leave intact for his little brother. He acts as his father’s confidante, allowing tales of demons and runes and horror to grace his ears. And John lets the stories of his own demented mind flow. He tells Dean to pack – they are going hunting, and _they are never coming back_. Fleeting thoughts of Dean’s friends, his kind teacher with his soulful blue eyes and gentle hands – _Cas_ –

 _Dean._ The apparition says. _That’s not how you wash woollens._

What? Dean looks down at himself, and suddenly his limbs elongate and he falls to sun baked kitchen tiles. Around him the earth itself seems to spin but his eyes fix on mussed up hair and laughing eyes.

It speaks once more: _I have to go to the store, but my car’s been giving me a bit of engine trouble lately._

Dean hears his voice, flippant and affectionate. Why don’t you take mine?

_No, it should make the trip fine, but could you check it for me when I’m back?_

Dean watches as it reaches to him, eyes crinkled softly. The thing’s arms wrap around him and Dean feels an aching sadness whirl in his gut, constricting his throat.

 _I love you,_ it whispers.

When he awakes to the morning sun streaming through the blinds, casting little rectangles of light on his sheets, Dean notices a wetness on his cheeks, and he has no idea why


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the really short updates. I'm trying to make sure their relationship progresses fairly naturally, so there's a lot of rewriting involved. But thanks for keeping up with the story, I appreciate it!

Castiel stumbles upon a drawer full of old photo albums Dean had stowed away whilst looking for newspapers and obituaries to browse. They sit in a dusty stack in the back of the first drawer in the alcohol cabinet, which Castiel notes, only houses an eclectic collection of half empty whiskey bottles and various drinking paraphernalia. He pauses momentarily in his surveyal of the drawer to open the cupboard and inspect an old bottle of wine that seemed rather out of place in the musty darkness. The label seems oddly familiar to him, though it seems strange that Dean would own a bottle of what was clearly expensive red wine (how Castiel was aware of this, he did not know).

For the first time, Castiel wonders if there had been someone before. The thought makes him even more curious as to the contents of the photo albums, and part of him knows that asking Dean would yield little, so despite the warning bells in his head, he carefully removes the stack and sets it on the floor. He folds his legs beneath him and opens the first album. The very first picture is of two little boys on a playset. He immediately recognises the taller boy with the winning smile and dark hair as Dean. He assumes the other child is Dean’s brother Sam, but behind them stands a young man bearing such a striking resemblance to Dean that Castiel identifies him immediately as his father.

Flipping through the pictures, Castiel sees Dean’s mother for the first time, a beautiful golden haired woman who is always smiling, always laughing – and suddenly, she stops showing up in photos, as if she never existed at all – the only signs that she was ever there in the lines of worry and sadness etched into the family’s once carefree faces. Castiel is so lost in the memories of Dean’s past that he doesn’t hear the door open.

“You know,” Castiel startles at the rumble of Dean’s voice, head spinning around, “I forgot those were there.”

Dean drops to his knees with a grunt and winces slightly before sitting down next to Castiel, their thighs pressed together. Castiel is hyperaware of the contact, his usually cold skin warming slightly. Dean picks up the album and flips to a picture of his family. He points to the smaller child with the floppy hair. “This is Sam, and my father, John,” his finger slides to his mother, “and mom. Mary, that is. She died in a house fire when I was 7. It was an accident – something to do with a gas leak, but dad wasn’t ever the same since.”

Castiel reaches for Dean’s hand wordlessly, their fingers lacing together instinctively, as if they had done so thousands of times before.

He continues, his voice sombre but steady. “Sammy and I only found out years later dad was schizophrenic. He’d had it pretty much under control while mom was alive, but then he stopped taking his medication.”

Dean exhales, his fingers tightening around Castiel’s.

“It started getting out of hand when he began talking about the monsters. That shit really scared the fuck outta Sam, you know? He was just a kid, he didn’t get it. He’d stay up all night after dad went on one of his rants, watching the darkness, just waiting for something to come and tear him apart.”

Castiel watches the solitary tear form at misted green eyes and roll down the planes of Dean’s cheek.

“It only got worse. Dad started coming up with these theories – that demons were after us and wanted us dead. That they got mom and they wanted us next. I got good at knowing when he was gonna start up and I’d grab Sam and we’d just go out, sit on the swings and shit. We had to fuckin’ move every other month cause of dad’s delusions. Some childhood, huh?”

Dean huffs a humourless laugh, harshly brushing at his eyes.

“I am sorry, Dean.” Castiel murmurs, and Dean doesn’t accept it but he doesn’t know that Castiel is sorry for what he is about to do.

He rises to his knees and shuffles to face Dean, cupping the other man’s face with both hands, Castiel would never have done this while he was alive, but he also knows that he has nothing else to lose. And dead, or alive, Castiel doubts he has ever wanted to do anything as much.

So he presses his cold lips to Dean’s forehead, brushes salty tears away and kisses his cheeks, trying to draw whatever is left of his pain into himself. Dean freezes, and Castiel fears the worst, but then Dean locks his arms around Castiel’s waist and draws him in close and they stay like that – locked in an awkward embrace on the living room carpet, foreheads touching, breath mingling, as the loons start their evening serenade.

 

Dean isn’t sure how long they had been embracing that way, but his back is starting to get sore so he gently extricates himself, and chuckles softly at Castiel’s expression – equal parts confused and grumpy at the loss of contact. He gets to his feet and proffers a hand to Castiel, pulling his companion up and leading him to the couch.

Castiel watches Dean, warily. “Dean, I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable…I merely wanted to –“

“Cas.” Dean interrupts, moving to rest his head on Castiel’s chest, curling up on the couch next to him. “I’m too old to really give a shit about details and you’re too dead to play the whole dating game. So, let’s just skip all that okay?”

Castiel quietens and strokes Dean’s hair. “Okay Dean.”

“Cool.” Dean shifts to grin up at him, and without really deliberating it, they lean in and despite the novelty and the craziness of it all, their lips finally meet.

And they both briefly think that it feels like the most natural thing in the world.


	5. Chapter 5

They sit, tucked around each other for hours, stealing kisses in the amber stained light of the setting sun. Dean watches the light dance in Castiel’s eyes, his own roving over the strands of raven hair, a sharp dissonance from his companion’s pale, lightly wrinkled skin. Is Castiel as old as he is? Dean wonders, his fingers tracing the canyons stress and age had carved through the skin of Castiel’s forehead. Castiel mirrors his gaze, and Dean feels as though he has turned into the fogged up glass of his living room windows. He is aware of the way Castiel observes him – with the same candid scrutiny he allots to the books on Dean’s shelves, as if Dean is something to behold, a saga in and of himself.

Dean refuses to consider the implications of this. He’s enamoured with Castiel – taken with a ghost, or something. Dean isn’t even really sure if he believes in ghosts. Perhaps Castiel is just an echo of his dead self, and yet he feels so solid under Dean’s roaming hands.

“Don’t you feel weird about this?” Dean blurts, unable to stop himself.

“About what?”

“This. What we’re doing here.”

Castiel frowns momentarily in thought. “Do you?”

Dean hesitates, “…I don’t know. Maybe? I mean, no offense Cas, but you’re kind of dead.”

Castiel stills under Dean’s touch. “I’m sorry Dean,” his voice goes grave and quiet, “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I should have been careful, it was silly of me to believe that –“

Dean can feel Castiel’s walls coming up again and he jerks upright. “No, Cas, listen, that’s not what I meant. Okay, well kind of, but not…look, I’m not good with words alright, but before your ass got here, I wasn’t really in a great place. I mean,” Dean huffs a laugh, “I guess you could call me a ghost, in a way.”

“Dean, you are very much corporeal,” Castiel interrupts, looking bemused.

“I know, but I wasn’t, well, _living_ , really. Hell, even Sammy got pretty worried. I don’t really remember why, or what changed. Just that, I’ve felt kind of empty – for…for years I think.” Dean shrugs a little.

Castiel remains silent, so Dean just looks down, rubbing at his neck in embarrassment. He hadn’t meant to out himself like that, but something about Castiel made his innermost thoughts and emotions come spilling out of him like an overfilled glass.

“Dean,” Castiel begins, “I am aware you have no interest in these things, but I have faith that I was brought here for a reason.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, perplexed.

“I am of the opinion that I’m here because I needed to be.” He explains, “It is hard to explain, but it’s something I feel. Things like that are difficult to put into words.”

“Do you think,” Dean ponders aloud, “that your death might have something to do with me?”

Castiel only stares at Dean wordlessly, and he’s left with so many more questions, until they fill his head to the brim, pounding on his skull with the myriad concerns and fears.

“You don’t think I killed you, do you?” Dean whispers.

This prompts a surprised laugh from Castiel, which immediately puts Dean at ease.

“No Dean,” Castiel smiles fondly, “I don’t think you killed me.”

“You have amnesia,” Dean scoffs, “how would you know?”

Castiel only takes Dean’s hand to place it on his ribs, “I just do.” And Dean believes him, wholeheartedly.

“I suppose you find my lack of faith disturbing.” Dean jokes, even though he’s pretty sure Castiel would never get the Star Wars reference.

Castiel is taken aback for a moment, and then narrows his blue eyes. “You stole that!” He accuses, playfully.

Dean blinks, “You actually got that?”

“I surprised myself.” Castiel admits. “Though Star Wars doesn’t seem like something I’d watch of my own volition.”

“Whoever taught you did a great job.”

 

Dean awakens with a crick in his neck and a sore back, the trials and tribulations of not having spent the night in an actual bed. Castiel, as per usual, has disappeared from his arms sometime in the night, but Dean can hear him puttering about in the kitchen, so he pads his way across the living room carpet, entering to the warm, bitter aroma of fresh coffee.

“Wow,” Dean remarks, “You actually made coffee.”

“Yes, Dean.” Castiel moves towards him, face completely neutral. “It was an incredibly complex process, but I managed.”

It takes Dean a minute to realise that Castiel had actually made a _joke_ , and then it hits him, and Dean laughs till he’s breathless. “I’m sorry Cas,” he splutters, “I’ve just never heard you make a joke before.”

Castiel smiles right back. “I guess I’m a work in progress, Dean.” Then he sets a mug of steaming hot black coffee.

Dean can’t help but inhale deeply, with a contented sigh. “How did you know I like mine black?”

“I’m not sure. I just did.”

Something about that strikes Dean as strange, but he doesn’t think much of it, just grins at Cas and sips at his coffee.


End file.
